


Save Me (So I Don't Have to Save Myself)

by orphan_account



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, F/M, First Kiss, Gay Sex, Gratuitous Smut, Loss of Virginity, Smut, Teasing, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23152687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The three times you meet with Oberyn and the final time you stay with him.
Relationships: Ellaria Sand/Reader, Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand, Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand/Original Female Character(s), Oberyn Martell/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

As guests of House Martell, your parents had warned you thrice times over to be on your best behavior so long as your stay in Sunspear. A needless warning—you were the ‘golden child’, soft-spoken and well-mannered. You know it was only for show in the presence of your younger siblings, a parent’s obligation. 

You’d felt as if the temperature had risen about ten degrees the second you’d crossed the border into Dorne. Grass led way to dirt led way to sand, mountains became less edged and more round, everything became brighter, more vibrant hues of red and orange and yellow. It was an intoxicating change from the wooded, watered paths of home.  
Sunspear was… overwhelming for a girl who’d just received her first moonblood not yet two weeks before. The citizens were friendlier, more accepting, less interested in who you were but who you wanted to be. Little boys played rough in the streets, unwatched by their parents and free to run to any and everywhere they pleased. So did the little girls, and that was what your mother tried to shield you from.

You so desperately wanted to follow them that you, now a woman of thirteen, cried. Just a few salty tears that you’d wiped away so furiously and quickly that you’re not sure anybody even noticed in the first place. But those tears were quickly forgotten as your carriage rolled through the gates of the castle and you were stuck staring at the odd design with your head out the window. 

It was blindingly white with shining gold domes at the tops of each tower likes the spears commonly used by Dornishmen. Oddly enough, you’re sure it was designed to resemble a ship in reference to Nymeria’s ten thousand ships, but you hadn’t gotten to those kinds of specifics in your lessons yet. 

Inside was sprawling, glossy floors, unbelievably high ceilings, and very open. It seemed as if walls didn’t exist to the builders of Sunspear. The only semblance of a doorway was two massive pillars on either side to indicate another new room. 

You’d settled into your room shared by your two younger sisters after being greeted by the royal family. The oldest was very handsome, the middle very beautiful, and the youngest very intimidating. But they are all older than you, the youngest still your senior by three years, so you feel inferior to them. They certainly must feel you inferior themselves. 

Introductions were brief, a proprietary thing purely for the adults as you shyed your gaze to your blurred reflection on the floor. Every time you’d gain the slightest bit of courage to glance up, Oberyn’s eyes were always on you. 

That night, you’d gone to bed underneath the thinnest sheets, the warm Dornish breeze flowing in from the open window, dreaming of a new face. 

The following morning, your parents explained they had important business with the Lord and Lady of Sunspear and that you and your younger siblings were allowed to play with the other highborn children until their return. 

Your sisters sewed with the other girls, your brother watching the guards-in-training with some other boys. Meanwhile, you found yourself a quiet spot in the crook of some stairs, fiddling with the ends of your dress as you contemplated a future outlined and branded under your name. 

You hear the clatter of footsteps down the corridor, but you pay them no mind until, “Look, a fair maiden all by her lonesome.” 

Your attention is brought to this group of three boys, unimportant but very obviously pretentious nonetheless, staring down at you with growing smirks. You look around to find no one else save for the four of you.

“What are you doing by yourself. Don’t you have any friends?” the left one asks with his too-large mouth underneath a too-small nose. His hair is shaggy, unkempt, and his body resembles that of a plump, round blueberry. His clothes look far too tight for his body and you’d snigger if you weren’t wary of their intentions. 

“I don’t want friends,” you reply defensively, crowding closer to the wall as if had any sort of comfort at all. 

“Of course, why have friends when you could have us?” the right one says, moving in a step towards you. He’s tall and slender, perhaps a bit too thin for someone clearly as rich as him. His cheekbones are sharp, almost like the perfect villain.

You stand at that, reading the situation like an early-year book and knowing you need to escape. “I’m sure my septa is looking for me, I apologize for my hasty leave.” You play polite, hoping it hides your terror well enough.

“We didn’t say you could leave,” the middle one says with a strict, weaselly voice. His grip is tight around your arm and is solid and still as you attempt to pry it loose. 

“Let me go.” Your voice is small and meek compared to the demand in your words and they laugh in response to it. 

“You better do as the lady tells you.” The voice is young yet deep and accented, and your head whips around to face your potential rescuer. It’s Oberyn standing tall and languidly, a small smirk playing at his lips. He twirls a dagger in his hand, the blade glinting in the light under each pass in the sun’s rays. “Women can be far more vicious than men.”

“This isn’t any of your concern, Martell.” Bold words for a stupid boy.

Oberyn’s nonchalance vanishes, the look on his face darkening as he stops his knife twirling. “Isn’t it? You’re under  _ my  _ roof, wandering  _ my _ halls, tormenting  _ my _ guest.” He steps towards the one still holding onto your arm, holds the knife up to mockingly inspect it before bringing up to his neck at lightning speed, like a viper. “And even if you weren’t, I’d make it my concern.”

The grip on your arm disappears only to return as a bruising force in your shoulder that has you stumbling back and to the floor. You look up, dazed, just in time to see the same boy attempt to strike at Oberyn, but Oberyn quickly sidesteps, slashing his dagger outwards so fast you’re not sure he even cut anything. But he had. The boy holds his bony hand to his cheek where blood pours profusely from underneath.

“You cut me!” he shouts appalled, eye wide with terror and shock.

Oberyn holds the dagger as he had been moments before, staring intently at the sheen of red sliding down the blade. “Yes, and it’ll be your neck next if you don’t leave this lady alone.”

The two other boys, the ones who only stood and watched the events unfold, turn and run. The last one, the one with the new cut along his cheek that will surely scar, bristles in anger before flouncing away.

“Are you alright, flower?”

You take his offered hand, standing up and dusting off your dress. “Yes, thank you.”

“My name is Oberyn.”

His eyes are darker than you’d thought, his black hair cropped short, his skin tan and golden in the small sliver of light the two of you stand in. He wears brown pants and boots and an orange shirt left open to show off his smooth chest and stomach. Why do you suddenly wish to reach out and touch it?

“I know.”

He smirks at that. “As I know who you are.” He looks around as he continues, “Shall I escort you back to your room or, perhaps, keep watch in case those ugly rats come back?”

The idea of him guarding you is very tempting and makes your heart swell in a way it never has before, but… “I shall like to be left alone.”

“As you wish, flower.” He bows dramatically before sauntering away and you can’t turn your gaze away from his backside until it disappears around the corner. 

~ ~ ~

A small tourney is being held in honor of your mother’s fifth pregnancy. Houses big and small have traveled to your home and settled in for the few days these matches should last. Aside from your bedroom, there’s not a single place near or far you can go to be alone. All it is, is more pretending day in and day out until they leave. 

You haven’t paid much attention to the list of patrons or the list of fighters. You truly cannot find a care to give in the whole of Westeros, but you know you must sit and be pretty like showhorses for your surname. The most interesting part so far has been when a man had accidentally been stabbed and had to be carried off as red trailed behind, but if you admitted that then people would surely think you mad.

The final match for the day, much to your delight and relief, is announced. “Sir Brenden Moore versus Prince Oberyn Martell.”

Your interest is piqued. Your first, last, and only meeting with him had been the incident three years ago while your family had been guests at Sunspear and, as childish and naive as it may seem, you’d dreamed of him often. It was embarrassing to be woken in the morning after having a head filled with thoughts of him lying above you, of how his thick fingers must feel in places, of what he must look like underneath what little he already wears. 

You’d heard rumors not long after your leave that Oberyn had been found in bed with a man’s paramour, leading to a duel in which the man subsequently died of festered wounds. They’ve called him the Red Viper ever since in reference to the gossip that he’d cheated with a poisoned blade. You’ve always thought that if he had, then it was a smart move. And if he hadn’t, then his never once disproving the claims made him all the more alluring.

You wonder what he’s doing here, hearing he’d been sent away in order to make peace with the family of the man he’d killed. But you suppose it is of no concern to you, no matter how curious you may be. 

Oberyn sits atop a lean, muscled horse with, shockingly, no armor. The crowd laughs as he canters out, but you think the horse is magnificently beautiful even if the lack of armor is rather unsmart. Oberyn himself is even dressed in little metal. Certainly, no helmet, although the rules dictate no foul play, meaning no attacks towards the head or the horse. 

Your heart is beating in anticipation as the horn blows and the two foes face each other. It all happens so quick. In the blink of an eye, Oberyn has dismounted Sir Brenden Moore with his yellow-striped lance while narrowly avoiding Brenden’s. His horse gallops to the end of the grounds before making its way back around where Oberyn plays the crowd well.

You swear he winks right at you.

Later, after you’ve managed to sneak away for a while, you involuntarily make your way to the fairgrounds in use of the tents of your parents’ guests. Many squires and knights, ladies and lords crowd the space, the conversation a humming in your ears. You don’t quite know where you’re walking to, just that you’re walking as if you’re waiting for something to appear.

“The flower has bloomed,” a familiar accented voice says.

You whip your head around to find Oberyn, taller than before, fitter, more defined. He looks regal. And deadly. A dangerous combination that has you undeniably entranced.

“Why do you call me flower?” you ask in response, ignoring the way you face heats at the compliment.

“T’is fitting, no? Your dress that day was the same burgundy shade of Dornish Blooming Fires.” He takes a step towards you, lifting a finger to your cheek to brush away a windblown lock of hair. “Did you see my tourney match today?”

You nod, smiling. “I did, you were very talented.”

“So they all say. Give me something better.”

“Handsome, too.”

He tsks, shaking his head. His dark eyes shine with peculiarity. “Good, but not good enough.”

You pretend to think on it for a moment, though you already know what you want to do. “Shall I give you a kiss to express my reverence and admiration?” He smiles coquettishly at that and you quickly add, “On the cheek, of course.”

“You shall.”

He bends down, turning his head and you can’t help the way your eyes trail over the planes and delicious tendons of his tanned neck. You notice now the stubble growing at his upper lips and along his sharp jawline. You can imagine how beautiful he will look once it's fully grown in. 

You lean in, hands clasped behind your back like the proper lady you are, lips pursed as you prepare to make contact with the smoothness of his cheek. But just at the last second, as your breath hitches at the heat radiating from him, he turns back so that your lips meet together. 

They’re very soft and plump. Different from the harsh words that can sometimes spill forth from them. But those words have never been directed at you and you feel drunk at the way fit so perfectly with yours, so you lean further in. You’ve never kissed anyone before and you want to believe it’s just another silly dream your mind has conjured up. 

But then his hands grasp onto your shoulders, sliding up your neck and palming your jaw and you know this is real. You want more. You need more. But he pulls away, licking his lip with a subtle tongue you’ve yet to taste. 

“Until next time, flower,” he says, walking away into the crowd of tents and squires and people wholly unimportant to you at this moment in time.

You feel like fainting. Until next time, indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

A flurry of maids and servants buzz around you; one at your back tightening the straps of your white dress, another securing the vale in your hair. All the while, your mother wanders in a circle around you to critique your beauty, ordering every so often to tighten the straps or, fluff your skirt, add more flowers. 

_ Flowers… _

You shake your head to rid the thoughts of him. You’d heard talk, gossip between the women of the lower floors, but you don’t want to get your hopes up. Not when tonight is the most important night of your life—your wedding. You suppose those thoughts are just as bad because you can feel the nervous bile climbing up your throat again. 

Years of traveling and bargaining and pleading eventually came to fruition when your parents finally offered your chastity and virtue to a noble lord whose previous wife had fallen ill and passed in the labor of their first child. The child hadn’t survived either. The circumstances in which your marriage is taking place makes you sick, but you’re well aware your shouts of dispute will go unheard or ignored. 

Therefore, here you stand being poked and prodded by nimble fingers and your mother’s arraigning glare. You wonder if all women feel the way you do minutes before they’re handed off in the name of holy matrimony. 

The procession is long and boring and you say your vows with the least bit of emotion that you can manage without the audience voicing concern. Standing there, you can’t help the thoughts catching and sniping at what little attention you have for the priest. Your husband-to-be is ugly—thin, wispy hair, a crooked nose, and splotches of age all over his wrinkled skin. All of it, however, is far too easy to overlook with the rotund pot-belly protruding from the breeches held up by a straining leather belt. 

This is not the man you wish to no longer be chaste for. 

That man is quite possibly, if you do, in fact, dare to hope, sitting out there in the crowd of esteemed guests. It saddens you that he might be watching you promise yourself to someone else, but such is the way of society. 

You close your eyes and try to pretend this face, these lips, are not kissing yours. That they belong to someone else. You want to run out of the room, down the grassy, wooded hills, and to the stream to dunk yourself headfirst. Perhaps the water will wash away the memory of today. 

Instead, you take your husband's hand and allow him to pull you into the crook of his sweaty arm as the two of you stride down the aisle of patrons who mean nothing to you. Together, you head into the halls now decorated with beautiful bouquets, tables, lanterns and candles to begin the celebration.

Dinner is served with honeyed chicken paired with stewed plums and spiced squash, creamy chestnut soup and acorn cakes, but you barely touch any of it piled onto your plate. Your lord husband, meanwhile, is on his third filling, so you delicately push yours to his side of the table and he carries on eating without noticing a single thing. Watching his teething munching and chewing, bits of the meal falling from his mouth makes your stomach twist and churn on its emptiness.

Later that night, when all the guests have settled into their respective rooms, you follow your husband into his (or yours, you suppose, even though you despise the thought). A large bed covered in thick blankets, a hundred pillows, and a tall, dark-wooden canopy rests in the very center of the, otherwise, very barren room. You notice your belongings have already been brought up and put away within his things and the solidity of everything suddenly hits you all at once.

“Let me go relieve myself, my dear, then we can consummate our grand marriage,” he says, and you shiver as he brings his lips to sully the back of your hand. 

You don’t think twice about the consequences of your actions as you flee from the room the second he leaves your sight. You’re sprinting, tripping over the stupid tail of your gown and the ridiculous length of your heels, breath nearly evaporated from your lungs. You’ve no idea where you’re going, but you have to leave. You can’t- You don’t-

Suddenly, you barrel into the hard chest of someone as you round a corner and your heart stops in fear. Oh no, you’re going to be in so much trouble. But all the thoughts and fears and anguish melt away into meaningless puddles on the stone floor as you look up in deep, dark, and familiar eyes.

“Oberyn,” you whisper, unable to fight the relieved smile from your tear-stricken face. Had you been crying?

“My Flower, what is the matter? Why are you crying, so?”

His voice is so soothing, so calming. “I don’t want to be with him, Oberyn. I can’t be with him.”

You’re becoming hysterical, fisting your hands into the yellow cloth of his shirt, shaking your head as if to emphasize how distraught you are. He takes your hands in his, pulling them from his shirt and holding them tightly to his chest. “He is your husband, my Flower, and you have a duty to these people you now rule.”

You shake your head more fervently. He doesn’t understand. “No, that’s not what-I don’t-” Your eyes raise to his, staring into his soul as you admit, “I don’t want him to be my first.”

His pupils dilate when you finish. “Who do you wish for, then?” he asks, his accented voice an octave deeper.

“You.”

He doesn’t hesitate in pushing you against the corridor wall and kissing you deeply. And, finally, after almost five years, you know how his tongue tastes—like the sweet candied fruits sold by the vendors in Dorne’s marketplaces. The facial hair, now full and dark and deliciously handsome, scratches against your face. His hair is so soft in your fingers as you find something, anything to hold onto.

But then he pulls away, leaving your lips bruised and vying for more. “If that is your desire, my Flower, then I shall gladly consent. That is your desire, no?”

“Yes,” you answer with a swooning sigh, “teach me how it is to be loved, Oberyn. Please.”

You feel light and carefree as he holds your hand, leading you down the labyrinth of twisting corners and narrow hallways until stopping in front of a door the same as all the others you’d passed. Giggles and grins fall through the threshold, trapped willingly inside as the door is shut behind you. 

Oberyn takes his time unlacing the straps of your wedding dress and goosebumps erupt on your skin wherever his fingers brush the bare skin of your back. Once the intricate back is unlaced, you feel as if you can finally breathe—physically and mentally. 

Oberyn trails a delicate, tentative touch to the indentations left in your skin. “It seems as if Dorne is the only place to treat women as they should always be treated—like Goddesses.”

“Like a human being would do me just fine.”

“That would not satisfy me enough, Flower.”

You don’t know what you expected, but it was not his lips ghosting over your back to trace the same patterns his fingers had followed. Your hands still hold onto the front of your dress to keep it from falling down, but Oberyn reaches around, turning you to him slowly, like a winding clock, grasping onto your wrists and pulling your hands away. 

The white satin and lace falls away to reveal...well, you've never thought your chest much to look at, but Oberyn’s eyes can’t seem to leave the hardening rosebuds. You would’ve thought you’d be shy or flustered underneath his piercing gaze, but, while the nerves are still there fluttering like persistent butterflies in the pit of your stomach, you feel… wanted. 

“Beautiful,” he whispers in awe, then adding, “and I want you to refuse to let anyone tell you any different.” The first touch of his hand cupping your breast is far better than what your own had ever been able to do. “Promise me, Flower.”

“I promise.” Much of those words are released in a breathy, wanton sigh. 

He kisses and swirls his tongue around each bud, eliciting sharp, shrill gasps out of you, but then he begins to trail tongue and teeth lower between the valley of your breast, down your sternum and navel. The closer he gets to… the more sensitive you become. 

“Sit and lie back, my Flower,” Oberyn states, and you comply in a hazy reverie, lying back against the soft fur and wool. “Relax and enjoy yourself.”

You watch him from between your legs as he kneels on the floor, shucking off his shirt and shoes and throwing them carelessly to the side. A deep, sensual kiss to the inside of your thigh, the flesh soft and pliant and sensitive. You’re not quite sure what you’re expecting, but it’s not his finger pushing inside of you slowly. 

It’s a foreign feeling, one that has you tensing and trying to close your legs around his head, but he uses his other hand to hold you apart. “What did I say? Relax.”

Despite what your fight-or-flight instincts are trying to tell you, you force your muscles to uncoil themselves, to slow the rapid beating of your heart. Once you do, Oberyn’s adding a second finger to curl up inside of you and the pleasure is a twining vine in the depths of all the dreams you’d ever had of this very moment. 

The most obscene moan you’d ever dared to release comes forth when his tongue licks the very flesh his fingers are stroking. You feel him chuckle, the vibration too much. “I am sorry, I know that was probably overwhelming for you, but I simply could not help myself. I needed to know how you tasted.”

“How do I taste?” you dare to ask, eyes kept towards the ceiling, the blood rushing in your ears.

“Akin to a meal fit for a King.”

It’s with that single sentence that you become undone, a heaving mess and feeling as if you’d scorned each of the Gods all at once. You’re not sure you regret it, as deeply rooted in religion your family is. If this is considered a sin, then you might as well call yourself unfaithful right now. 

“I like the way you sound,” he says, standing above you and removing his pants without a single care in the entirety of Westeros. 

Part of you feels the need to look away, to give him decency. But you force yourself to look down, to finally see all that you had been wishing for. You think he’s well-endowed, but without a reference to base it on, you can only hope he’s everything you’d imagined. Although, if the rumors and gossip are anything to go off of, then you know you'll be well taken care of. 

You don’t know why Oberyn’s presence has always made you more bold than you ought to be, but, regardless, you find yourself replying, “I want to hear how you sound, as well.”

He smiles, perhaps smirks, bending and crawling over your body. “No need to worry, I am not a quiet one.”

His body is very warm, very smooth, and very well-defined. Your hands trail over his back, his arms, his chest—all of it so enticing and you wish to kiss every inch. Despite the tension between you, hanging like a cloak heavy in the air, Oberyn’s face suddenly turns serious.

“It’s important to me that you enjoy this as much as I, so please tell him if any part hurts you.”

You don’t hesitate to answer, “You would never hurt me, Oberyn.”

You understand that his previous ministrations were to prepare you, but it’s nothing compared to the real thing. Nothing compared to the length and girth of him pushing into your tightness, sliding against your slick walls, tearing apart the thin wall of virginity. Tears pool at the corner of your eyes, your body jolting at the sharp pain.

“Keep going,” you tell him when he hesitates, his thumb brushing away the salty water.

Pain gives way to pleasure soon enough and you find yourself in another world entirely. A world where you and Oberyn are free to be one together, where the two of you can run anywhere, fight anywhere, love anywhere. Each thrust paves way to a new vision, each grunt pulsating deep inside of you. Nothing could have prepared you, and part of you wishes to go back in time and redo the events exactly as they happened that led you to this moment. 

Oberyn stilling and releasing inside of you, his seed hot and thick and coating your walls brings forth your second climax for the night. By the end of it all, you’re a shaking, sweating, quivering mess beneath the fairest man of all of Westeros. 

He cleans you up silently, softly and, still, says not a word when you climb underneath the covers to join him. You wish to spend the entire night with him, even if you sleep for most of it.

~ ~ ~

It’s been over ten years since you’d last been to Dorne, let alone Sunspear. So many things have happened, so many events unfolded. There’s hardly enough light in a day to explain how ruined Oberyn’s family must feel, how ruined Oberyn himself must feel. You know he was very close with Elia and then...she…

Is it selfish of you to have run away here? Yes, very. But was it not Oberyn who taught you free-will? Who taught you, without even having to explicitly state, that living a life unabridged was far better, worth far more than even the blasted Iron Throne itself? Such a life is not for everyone, however; you’ve come to learn that. You must be prepared for the backlash, for the hatred and criticism of those pretentious few. 

The law of the land is as unbent, unbowed, unbroken as the Martells themselves.

That’s why you’ve absconded away to what you desperately hope is your salvation. Because a childless widow will not survive long in this world. 

Your marriage was… pointless. A means to an end, you suppose. All it succeeded in doing was giving you a few more years of comfort and stability, but was it worth it only to have it all ripped so mercilessly away from you? Nothing had ever been yours the entire time you’d slept in that lonesome castle. And that truth had never become more clear than now.

Hearing your lord husband had fallen ill, you knew, deep down inside the pits of swirling anger and lust and sin, that it was only a matter of time. Then the maester had announced his time of death and you felt… a strange amalgam of emotions any other newly-widowed woman would never have dared to feel. 

Throughout your time together, he’d bed you every so often and every so often you’d discover your blood would appear as on time as dinner every night. Strangely enough, however, you never once broached the subject. Or perhaps not, you never once broached the subject of anything, for that matter.

It was a loveless, quiet, proprietary marriage. Do the deed and never speak. But that was fine by you, you didn’t want to admit your barrenness aloud anyway. It was whispered in the halls enough for you; even as you walked alone, sat alone, kept busy alone, you heard the gossip. At first, you hated yourself. If you couldn’t have a child, then what were you to do? But then you would sleep that night and dream of Oberyn’s face and suddenly things became crystal clear.

The procession of his passing was small and unimportant, and your belongings, as much as you prepared to take, were already packed. You spoke to no one, hadn’t even given the slightest bit of suspicion to a single soul—then you fled that very night. Almost a month traveling the smaller, more dangerous roads with only a few easily-swayed sellswords to keep you safe and you’d been brought back to that day when you were thirteen. 

It is a new, unfamiliar maester who answers your incessant knocking at unreasonable hours.

“I need to speak with Oberyn Martell, please,” you state, pleading and desperate and exhausted.

The maester, as old as they always are, his chains clinking as he steps back in shock, concern and, perhaps, disgust written in ink across his face, questions, “Who are you? What do you want with the prince?”

“I need to speak with Oberyn, please!” you insist, wanting to push this man aside and sprint until you find your light in the darkness. 

“What is going on here?”

Manners be damned, you shove your way inside the tall, cavernous doors, stopping just short of Oberyn’s form. Why are you so frightened of a sudden?

The maester rights himself, placing himself in between the two of you. “My prince, what are you doing up at this hour?”

Oberyn smirks, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “I imagine the more correct question would be ‘what am I  _ not  _ doing up at this hour’?” He steps towards you and you can’t speak, you can’t move. All you can do is stare at him as if none of this is real. “Why haven’t you let this lady inside, maester?” he inquires, raising a challenging brow.

“My prince, I-”

“Go tend to your crows and your potions, I’ll handle it.”

He bows stiffly before giving you a once-over and shuffling his way back to his coup. Oberyn wastes no time in striding over to you, and his hands palming your cheeks just like that night years ago has your eyes bubbling with tears.

“My Flower, we’ve had this discussion once before. Whatever could be the matter now? Why have you come here? What has happened?”

“I-”

“Oberyn?”

Your head turns to find a very… beautiful woman scantily-glad and very obviously in the middle of… activities standing in the threshold with an expectant and concerned look on her face.

“Ellaria, my love, I’ll be with you soon.” There’s an unspoken agreement between them, a way they’re able to communicate without words.

_ My love… _ oh, you should’ve known. You were a stupid girl. A very stupid girl to think… You never should’ve come here. What were you expecting, surely not this?

“I’m sorry, I should go,” you say instead once she leaves, removing yourself from his grasp, “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

Oberyn doesn’t even let you take more than one step away from him before he’s turning around in his arms and bringing you in for a kiss rivalling that of the day of the tourney or your wedding night. As much as you feel wrong, you can’t stop yourself from melting into his hold, his heat, his taste. Because you also feel you belong there.

“My Flower,” he says as he pulls away, and you will never tire of hearing him call you that, “so many things have changed, but I swear to all the Gods above and more, even on my sister, that my feelings for you have not.” His hands hold yours as if you’re exchanging sacred vows. “Let me explain things, there is much to discuss.”

You sit there intently listening as he explains, fills in the gaps of the missing years between now and your last meeting. So much has… you shouldn’t be as surprised and shocked as you are. To find he has a paramour and not one, not two, not even three, but eight bastard daughters? Part of you feels as if you’re intruding on this life he’s created without you. Another part of you wants it so badly. 

Either way, by the end of this heavy conversation, your takeaway is this: Oberyn is, essentially, inviting you into his life and his relationship. Assuming you’re okay with Ellaria as an integral part of the picture. Admittedly, you have, once or twice… or thrice, given thought to what it might feel like being with another woman. But those are thoughts you’d never one entertained, not even in the comfort of being alone.

But Oberyn doesn’t seem to mind and Ellaria is as alluring as he’d been in the beginning.

He takes you to meet her, to his grand bedroom that is so wholly him it makes you want to laugh and cry all at the same time. She lays amongst silks sheets and pillows, nothing but a thin blanket covering the important parts. They greet each other with a long, sensual kiss and you want to look away, but you can’t. You want it, too.

He leaves to give you privacy to talk, to get to know each other. Says he will be back soon.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” she says, sitting next to you along the bed, “he never stops talking about ‘his Flower’.”

You perk up at that. He never stops talking about you? You were on his mind as much as he was on yours? Oh, how cruel the Gods have been separating you from him. 

“The way his eyes lit as he spoke of you,” you reply, trying to be humble and well-mannered in the presence of a new face, “clearly he’s as entranced, bewitched even, by you.”

She doesn’t blush as you are prone to do, but she does shy her gaze away to the moon shining outside the window. “Oberyn gives affection where affection is due. He loves wholly, deeply and truly.” Her eyes drift to yours. “But so do I.”

Her hand, fingernails long and painted the same color of Dornish Blooming Fires, trails up your arm. What is the saying… curiosity killed the cat? But there are no cats here. Only vipers claiming what’s theirs.

Her lips are different from Oberyn’s, far different, but the feelings and sensations they elicit are much the same. Just as passionate and burning and searing. It’s nearly just as overwhelming as the first time. 

Sex with your husband wasn’t pleasurable. It wasn’t what Oberyn told you it should be. This, this is a craving finally satisfied. 

You barely hear the door open as you allow Ellaria to push you back against the pillows, her slender body climbing over you, her hands deft and soft as they graze over your skin. 

“Would you like to join us, my love?” Ellaria asks, her lips sucking a bruise into your collarbone. 

A dark chuckle reverberates throughout your bones. “I rather think I’d like to watch first.”

You’re pliant, malleable, willing as she pulls your dress from your body. Any thoughts of her supple breasts, the smooth planes of her stomach, the unmarred skin of her thighs compared to you evaporate into thin air as she works all three fingers into you at once. It doesn’t feel unwelcome this time, not as foreign or uncomfortable. Perhaps it’s because you’re desperate, perhaps it’s because this is no longer your first time, perhaps even because Ellaria being a woman somehow makes the situation far more comforting.

She makes quick work of you, pulling your orgasm and dragging it out for as long as you’re able. You’re aware of Oberyn’s presence, but the thought makes you even more excited. 

But she isn’t through with you yet. Her fingers reach for a bowl of berries sitting atop the side table, dripping with your juices and mixing with the fruit as she squishes it between her thumb and forefinger. Then she brings it to your mouth. You’ve never tasted yourself before. The difference in sweetness is… good. You enjoy it.

You don’t know what comes over you, but you grasp the back of her head and pull her to you. In the midst of your kissing, she’s situated her legs between yours so that you can feel her heat against you. The feeling of her rubbing, grinding against you is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. Inside, you laugh at yourself. How many times can you say that about these two exquisite individuals?

With your arms wrapped around her, your breasts pushing together, your eyes catch Oberyn’s. You don’t look away as you climax with her. Your hope that your desire is as obvious, as clear, as loud as the shouts of anguish you’d cried in the previous years is proved fruitful as he rises from his seat and stalks towards you with purpose.


End file.
